


Write Me a Storm

by concerningwolves



Category: American Revolution RPF
Genre: Alexander is an author, Asexual Character, Asexual John Laurens, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Jamilton - Freeform, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 09:52:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8484838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/concerningwolves/pseuds/concerningwolves
Summary: Jefferson. Thomas. What is he? If anyone were to ask Alexander Hamilton, he would not be able to answer. They are doing something dangerous, and that is why Alex began to fall.Alex is an author whose career faltered terribly after Eliza's death. Thomas is his critic, his enemy, his support and everything in between.





	

Jefferson. _Thomas_. What is he? If anyone were to ask Alexander Hamilton, he would not be able to answer. They are doing something dangerous, he knows that much at least- and it is more than anyone else does. Anyone else would only see empty displays where Alexander Hamilton's thick novels once stood, and empty passages in Thomas Jefferson's double page spread. Two forces in the world of literature have stopped spinning together; only one spins on alone.

Thomas is Orion, Alex is Artemis. They are made to kill one another. Thomas is a titan, a towering, monstrous thing of a man with his neatly kept hair and bright eyes and the blood of an empire on his hands; an empire he cut with the same words he will now use to hack his way through to Hamilton. Alexander is the cast-out one, an Olympian on the edge of it all. He may wear a silver ring around his neck and bind his jagged edges together with print on a page, he may have forsaken any other when Eliza died and he re-married his work, but he will never truly be remembered as a god. Brighter than stars, the rising and falling fight between author and critic would span that double sheet spread. Neither won, although Jefferson is still preserved on an ink sky and Alexander simply... stopped.

His notebooks have created a sea around his desk chair, a great and overflowing churn of emotions and words and ideas- and not a single one to be of any use. _Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink_. So accurate, Alexander thinks as he studiously ignores the thunder cloud that is Thomas Jefferson, pretending to tap away at his laptop when he knows it will all be deleted as soon as Jefferson leaves.

"I brought food." Jefferson says simply, and _food_ is a basket of nuts, pulses, vegetables, caviar, expensive shit Alexander has never had the taste for. There is a prime cut of meat in there too, most likely lamb but knowing Jefferson it could be venison too. He thinks wistfully about the cold pizza now lost down his waste disposal, finally deemed inedible that morning after three days.

"Don't need it." Alexander clips back, takes a deep breath. There is a moment of silence, Jefferson waiting for Hamilton to start volleying arrows so that he can draw his sword. But the polished bow of Hamilton's temper has snapped. Without it, he may as well be weaponless.

"The hell, Hamilton?" Jefferson demands, pointing at the row of lined-up coffee mugs, the Ritalin bottle on its side a few feet from the desk with one dose left in it, the carton of milk next to the laptop for the bowl of cereal Hamilton never actually made. He has no idea why the milk is on his desk on the first place. "You need this shit. You need to get outside."

"Do you care?" Hamilton looks up at last and fixes the other with a glare that is not quite all there. Jefferson's expression thunders for a few moments, but nothing comes out. Say no and be damned, say yes and be damned thrice over. They come a to a stalemate until Jefferson slams out of the apartment. Let him go. Jefferson will be back by the time the food in the hamper has ruined; by that time, Alexander would have managed a walk to the small shop at the end of the road.

 _Anything in the pipeline, Hamilton?_ John asks him, a smile dancing in those cornflower blue eyes Hamilton once considered drowning in. The cashier keeps his blonde hair long enough to wear in a ponytail, and once a year goes to Comic Con as Jaime Lannister or Draco Malfoy. Sometimes The Master. John Laurens is all honey, soft and sweet, and he loves the villains best; had loved the antagonist in Hamilton's Dark Waters series, too. Shame he had no idea the villain was based off Hamilton's father. He wants to be the only real friend Hamilton has left now, his presence in Alexander's life a constant bubble of Tumblr and breath-taking fan art, digital pieces of characters from Dark Waters. But that is just not the case. Hamilton grew away from Doctor Who marathons and sleepless hours playing Fallout; he grew into the world and John sat himself down behind a counter. John chose happiness and Hamilton chose bleeding over a laptop, he chose Jefferson.

It is easy to understand why Hamilton once loved him, back when they shared a room in college and John covered the walls with art and Peggy Schuyler would come spilling into their room a few times a day with fresh input on her and Alex's book. His first story was a collaboration novella between himself and Peggy, momentarily carried along by the vibrancy of Peggy's ideas and Hamilton's fantastic writing. Then it sunk. So Hamilton picked up a pen and began writing books inspired by his childhood, but he never told anyone that- until Thomas.

Thomas Jefferson ripped that information straight from Hamilton's chest through laptop screen and red-bannered Gmail. He cut it out of Hamilton and coiled into his life, the critiques on his writing becoming a war with no end, as Jefferson deftly attacked with a longsword and Hamilton showered arrow-tipped letters back at the writing magazine. Their attacks were intense and personal, and Eliza would become weary of hearing about it as his fingers curled through the chestnut fall of her hair in the evenings. At a time when shadows were lazy and light hung low, Hamilton would be static with words. His writing had never been better.

"You didn't eat it?" Jefferson demands when he next bursts in, although Hamilton has no idea why the _hell_ he gave the man a key in the first place. His sweater is magenta today. Hadn't Hamilton once attacked those obnoxiously coloured sweaters during one of his letters? Probably. Jefferson would always mock his film-themed shirts, usually ones from cheap shops.

"No." Hamilton is lying on the sofa, a magazine over his face as his fingers drum across his thighs and through the constricting white-noise of his own brain. The door clicks shut.

The next Hamilton knows, Jefferson is throwing the magazine to one side and standing there, Hamilton's prescription bag in one hand and a glass of water in the other. Hamilton swallows down the water and remembers his Ritalin on the last few gulps, sinking back as he waits for it to take effect. Jefferson sits down in the chair opposite Hamilton, long legs and spooling relaxation. It is Eliza's chair. Well, Jefferson fits in there too.

Hamilton is stunned to realise no guilt follows that thought.

"How much have you written?" Jefferson inquires, a deep itch in his voice: only Hamilton can scratch it, can satisfy it.

"Five hundred words." Hamilton replies shortly.

"Since-"

"Since you last asked." Hamilton runs a hand down his face, "They keep getting deleted. Stormchild is supposed to be..." he trails off and laughs, "Well, my agent and my editor have both stopped calling. I think Burr would like to shoot me."

They are almost at the surface, nearly back out into the ozone and black forest of Hamilton's old talkativeness, the dappled sunlight. Jefferson leans forwards ever so slightly. Hamilton has nothing more to say.

"Get your shit together." Jefferson says abrubtly before he leaves. For the first time, Hamilton wonders what he goes home to. Is it an empty apartment full of expensive paintings, a top-of-the-range fridge humming under computer noises and the tapping of a keyboard? Hamilton cannot imagine Jefferson in any way other than dashing out an article response, taking a whetstone to his bladed intellect. Hamilton does not even know where Jefferson lives.

Eliza used to have the superpower of soothing hands. Once, when Hamilton would lie with his head in her lap and feel her hands in his hair, he believed that was what he needed. But he tasted brimstone soon after that, and got a liking for the rainstorm, the mess of it and the wide, open breathing of a post-storm world. There might be parks churned to mud and pavements running filthy, but at least the trees stood green and the air waxed clear. For a long time, Hamilton was caught up in his newfound ability to not only dance in the rain, but also to forge and temper the storm. He had been doing so on the day Eliza was hit by a truck, when Hamilton had refused to go on their usual Sunday evening walk in favour of finishing a spirited defensive.

So Eliza stepped out into the road, soft dark eyes hardened to mahogany and chestnut curls rolling beautifully down her back. So Eliza did not see the truck because, as onlookers said, she turned to look back in the direction from which she had come. So Eliza payed for Hamilton's one real, deep betrayal, all because he could not say no to an argument. If Hamilton had not been fighting an inky slog with Jefferson, Eliza would have seen the truck coming because they would have been hand in hand with no need to look back. Although Hamilton would have done so, a longing ache for the angry tapping of his keyboard.

That thought is like resin to Hamilton, beautiful in a way that only a writer's mind could perceive.

It traps him.

Being a writer is a lonely thing. John almost understands; he writes fanfiction of Archive of Our Own, on Tumblr, sometimes on Wattpad, always in crudely pretty prose. Although John would never understand why Hamilton's only support now is the man he sung hatred for from their first online encounter. John, Hamilton supposes, does not count as a literary man at all. Jefferson does; Jefferson reads Brontë (all three), Shakespeare, Dumas, Dante, all for fun. Jefferson also writes for fun, and pours far more soul into it than he does his critique journalism.

"Why don't you write me a novel instead?" Hamilton shoots back, his first real arrow of lightning in over a year. "This crap isn't as bad as your journalism." He shoves the MacBook back at Jefferson, prose that is both crude and absolutely beautiful still dancing before his eyes. A French romance in the sun, born from the Parisian underworld. Hamilton has always known Jefferson is a Francophile. He also knows what this is. Hamilton has always been motivated by the spite and pride of wanting to do better.

"Your criticism is dire." Jefferson taps his fingers on the arm of what has become Jefferson's Chair, once, a refined action betraying his impatience. Hamilton shrugs.

Jefferson leaves his MacBook behind. It has been a long time since Hamilton had the motivation to rouse himself, but he does tonight and, curled around the laptop with a plate of pasta on his stomach, he devours the words. When he falls asleep it is Jefferson's face in his dreams, Jefferson as Hamilton saw him once with his guards scattered to the sea breeze and his auburn hair loosely tangled with salt, arms outstretched. For once he was not gelled perfection with his disconnected undercut, wearing clothes more like Hamilton would wear.

Gilbert was responsible for that, Alexander remembers upon waking. It was in High School, their last year when everyone was stressed, so Gilbert packed them all off in a rented mini-bus, the Schuylers, Herc, John, and Gilbert's friend from an obnoxiously expensive private school. Hamilton had almost forgotten, that memory lost amongst college and getting work, in Eliza, the wedding, the day he got published and quit his terrible pen-pushing job with Greene and Knox. But it resurfaces now with his head on a pillow that could be Jefferson's chest and the softness of his sides aching for another's touch.

He purges himself with a scalding shower and a green tea from Jefferson's hamper; by the time he has eaten the health cereal too, he feels almost human again. Although, Alexander will be Alexander: he grabs a carton of chocolate milk and chugs it down as his laptop boots up.

Then he gets up, walks to the door. Alexander makes it down the end of the road, over the crossing, before he decides to turn back. _Baby steps_ , he tells himself and returns to the quiet of his apartment. It is stifling, sweat-smelling, soured by being lived in, so Alexander whirlwinds around opening windows and grabbing the cleaning supplies Eliza kept stockpiled.

When Jefferson returns-(he never comes back the day after, Alexander muses, but keeps his trap shut)- Alexander is elbow-deep in pink gloves and soap suds in the sink, bulldozing his way through stacks of crockery. Jefferson says nothing at all, a flash of empathy wavering in his eyes, before he picks up a dishcloth and starts drying plates. Working in silence, with only a cacophony of cleaning, of knives against glasses and forks on plates, is an almost catharsis. It is a catharsis which becomes whole when Jefferson opens his mouth to criticise how Alexander stores his plates and Alexander fires back with the pros. Easier access, size order makes no sense...

And no, no Jefferson do not use lemon-scented shit on my rug it's fine; damn Hamilton, you've got no taste. Adams would do a better job than you and he's pathetic- what job? Alexander whips back.

Exhausted from the battle, they collapse down on the settee with mugs of that nicely roasted coffee Jefferson brought.

"The hell is this?" Alexander wrinkles his nose when he takes a sip. Jefferson, who is drinking from a tiny cup, laughs out loud. Then Alexander realises he should have done the same as Jefferson and they both burst out laughing. Not that either of them know why, but they have broken the surface into the after-storm and Alexander feels like he is breathing easily for the first time in a very, very long while.

And as they are laughing Jefferson is suddenly in there, his lips on Alexander's and they are a twining mess and Alexander later lies abed with his fingers touching his lips, which are so sweetly bruised. Sleep sweeps him into broad arms and auburn hair in the sea breeze.

"How many words?" Jefferson asks over Skype a few days later, lying across his bed in Monticello with glasses on, fucking nerd glasses which Hamilton pokes fun at intermittently.

"A few thousand." Hamilton shrugs, sitting bleary-eyed on his settee, specs on the front of his shirt.

"Since-" Thomas begins, because more and more often that vast, moneyed thunder cloud is becoming Thomas.

"Since nine AM." Alexander grins triumphantly and looks at the mid-morning light. His fingertips ache, pleasantly, and there is still the taste of fresh air on his tongue from the park, from a pre-dawn walk and a long, thoughtful stand in the graveyard.

He had bumped into Peggy, in her yellow sweater and denim dungarees, and they sat and talked in the park while Alexander absentmindedly fed more and more of his breakfast to the ducks. They ended up splitting Peggy's doughnuts, a sugar rush which rode him clean through the morning into a straight home-run of his book. By the time he hit send on the email to the writing magazine, the image of Peggy's liquid eyeliner-ed eyes dancing in the light over a backwater of grief, and of Thomas with his nerd glasses, Alexander felt happy.

By the next month, he is sprawled on Thomas' chest in Thomas' flat, tapping away on his phone and allowing his critic to doze, headphones on. Alexander presses a gentle kiss over the bruise-purple, storm-marbled markings on Thomas' neck.

And then Alexander Hamilton returns to furiously bashing out a defense of Stormchild, responding to the harsh dressing-down Thomas gave him. 


End file.
